Brothers and Sisters

I grew up in a college town but I didn’t go to college there. When you have grown up somewhere, made mistakes and known and been known for all your young life, the town just shrinks right down, way too small for growing or breathing anymore. So off I went to the “big” city an hour away. There wasn’t a soul I knew there and I don’t even remember how I met her – Sandy, part native American, tall and soft and huggable but fierce when defending someone or something she loved. She braided her hair into pigtails and you always knew she was feeling good when Princess Leah buns were seen atop her head. She was never without her steel toe Dr Martin boots because she was always constructing new sculptures and asking my scrawny self to help her move them, then chiding me for my lack of girth and muscle. We moved into a brick building downtown, refurbished into trendy apartments and we drank wine together. Lots of wine.

The rent was too steep though and my parents were footing the bill so I found a new place. A house full of artists. The avant guard of our inconsequential school. A love triangle had gone awry so boys were being expelled from the rickety old house and myself and another girl moved in. A girl that was everything I wasn’t, blond curls piled on her sweet head. She had whisked right in from another era in gingham and calico dresses. We lived together, sink stacked high with dishes, furnished with vintage treasures, vegetarian meals shared in the breakfast nook, swing dancing in our long living room, beer on crooked front steps and I was never really happy there.

Never happy, never at peace and drifting farther away from a God I knew was real. Then my boy said he didn’t love me, didn’t want to do this anymore and I laid in bed wondering where I was and how I got there and what to do next and how could I ever get somewhere I was supposed to be. The room swam and I didn’t even want to go to shows with them. Low didn’t sooth my soul anymore and roommates drove off to Chicago and Bedhead without me. I road my bike to his house, stinking of desperation and rolled right into a tent revival. I sat in the back row, the only white face in an unfamiliar crowd, staring at a Bible on the seat next to me. Wondering if the God in there could ever take me back, wondering if His love was real enough to win me back. Tall dark man in a robe with a voice like rumbling water prayed for me and I felt something real. Amidst the craziness and ladies dancing outside a street corner church, I felt my creator.

Long story, a friend with dreads and more ladies in church hats dancing in the aisles… and I knew I would follow God, knew what I always had, Jesus, Savior. I wish I had been strong enough to share the love  with them, but I ran. Ran out of that half of an old house  in the cool neighborhood, full of sex and despair. I ran to who knows where and ended up living with a gospel college. While the girls sang Halleluahs and straightened their tight curls I sat outside in the trees and read of Him. I was never one of them but they tolerated me, an odd curiosity. One mother took me in, offered me a job helping children. In a school looking like a castle, where I would meet my husband, dance with him in an old gym in front of young eyes that couldn’t see us. And I agreed to move into a two bedroom with her blind daughter, help take care of her till we were all worn out and it was time to take a break and move on . . .

When the newness of His love wore off, the honeymoon as they say. I saw that the ladies dancing and the preacher shouting had just as many rules shutting them down as the quiet pews I had turned away from. If you didn’t praise loud enough, maybe you weren’t really heaven bound. The Blind School was closing for summer break and I needed a job to tide me over. Kneading bread for the local bakery was long and hot and I wanted to run free and most of all I wanted to a tribe to share the summer with. So I went to work at a church camp. Eighty acres in the country, brothers and sisters in Christ, living in a farmhouses and cabins. Telling children stories of old, singing silly songs and learning redemption from each other. Gathering round a tiny table to share meals, I learned grace. Running through woods. splashing into ponds, climbing rocks and being bound so tight together, I fell deeper into a heavenly love. Worshipping together, hearts laid bare, voices raised round campfires and flopped in circles on the floor, I felt the true mystery of ages. Capture the flag night after night, dashing through dark fields, learning every crazy character that we were sharing those magic months with, we were the body of Christ.

I slept in a bed by the window, morning breeze wafting in, second floor of a creaky farmhouse, sharing the room with her. A musician and teacher whose heart is kind and tuned to truth. When the summer was over she offered me an air mattress on her floor. An oasis, a room and a closet to share. I grew to know and love my husband, had him put a ring on my finger while I was living with her. I finished college, learned about children and how I longed to have them and became a teacher while living there. I am  thankful for her generosity and was so surprised and happy to share an evening with her on the beach here in California. It has been many years since we have seen each other. She has written a book, Mercy Rising and her husband has recorded a worship album. I have had three crazy kiddos, but we fell right back into the long talks and the silly jokes we shared. It felt like our memories at camp, kids running happy chaos around us as we cooked s’mores by the fire to the tune of guitars and Father Abraham.

10-4-12 . 28mm . sunset, last light